


Counted on our Fingertips

by drosophilase



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:31:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drosophilase/pseuds/drosophilase
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How the whole Outfest debacle went down.  (If you don’t remember: Darren arrived with Mia, sang “Happy to Keep His Dinner Warm.”  Chris was incredibly stunning at the American Horror Story premiere at the same time.) </p><p>Warning: angst.  a truckload of it.  and a barely-there Mia. (NOT Miarren)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counted on our Fingertips

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [“One Man Drinking Games”](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yTfLi_dk5z4) because I hate myself. Thanks to Maia and Elaina and Erin for letting me hurt them. This is incredibly late; I found it in my WIPs. Sorry.

> _May I say I loved you more?_

“Is that really what you think, Chris?  That I don’t  _want this enough_?”

They’re six feet apart in Chris’s house and screaming at each other, hoarse, tense, and flushed with tears streaming everywhere.  Darren’s given up on trying to wipe them away, instead blinking furiously so that Chris’s agonizingly twisted face will stay in focus.  He fights the urge to close himself off, instead keeping fists so tight he’s starting to lose feeling in his fingers from the strain of keeping his arms down.  He’s close to thirty minutes past the time he was planning on leaving and the room is blurred and tilting, but he stands his ground because this is important, this is everything.

“What else am I supposed to think, Darren?  Everything comes back to this.  That you  _can’t right now_ ,  _just another couple months Chris, after this event,_ _just wait a little bit longer_.”

He’s devastatingly beautiful even now,  with half his hair fallen in his face and tear streaks reddening his cheeks.  His tone is mocking and unapologetic and Darren tries to find the energy to be offended, to stick up for himself, but Chris is so incredibly, stunningly right.  And knowing Chris is right just makes him angrier.

“And I mean that Chris, I’m really trying!  If we just— Michael said—”

“There’s the problem, Darren.  Hit it right on the nose.  I can hear all about what _Michael Samonte_  says—” he hisses the name like it’s not worthy of passing his lips, and really it’s not— “or what the media says, but I never seem to know what _you’re_  saying.”

Darren’s confused, doesn’t say anything because he’s  _been_  talking.  They’ve stayed up seven out of the last ten nights holding each other and talking until it’s okay again, each restless night ending later and later.  How could Chris say they don’t communicate?

Chris can tell, like he always can, that Darren doesn’t get it.  Even with his arms tightly folded, frustration and hurt rolling from him in waves, he understands Darren on the most basic of levels.  The throb in Darren’s chest twists up tighter.

“I know we’ve  _talked_ — you talked until you lost your voice— but what are you _saying_ , Darren?   _What do you want?_ ”

The question pulls him up short.  His heart, his hands, his very  _bones_  are straining forward with the force of how much he wants Chris, to hold him and kiss every inch of him, to wipe every semblance of tears away like he’s done so many times before.  A fresh wave of tears makes him squeeze his eyes shut to try and hold it in because how can Chris not know?  How can he look at Darren and listen to Darren and not know that he’s  _exactly_  what he wants?

He’s trying to find the words, to choose them right, to make sure he doesn’t mess it up, running his fingers through his hair until it’s so tangled he can’t anymore.

When he finally meets Chris’s eyes and they’re so blue, resigned and almost _defeated_ , the gravity of his own words finally strike him.  How many times has he said  _not now_  or  _soon_ or  _maybe next time_?  How long have they been sneaking around avoiding cameras and adhering to silly shit like “controlled sightings” and camera avoidance and  _tweeting protocols_?  How could he not have seen what he was doing, not just to Chris, but to  _them_?

Darren drops his hands hard, open palms brushing his jeans, rough enough to sting.

“You’re right, of course you’re right.  You’re always right.  Chris, baby I’m  _so sorry_ , I don’t—”

Chris puts a hand up, cutting him off.  Darren’s hot all over and his throat closes up, he can’t  _breathe_  because he knows that look, he  _knows_  when Chris is done with talking about something, when he’s made up his mind—

“I know.  Darren, I know.”  No emotion, not even a little. 

“Can you stay?”  He’s begging.  His breathing redoubles now, panic rising fast.  “It’s okay if I don’t show up.”

“No, honey, you know we both have obligations.”

“I can tell Michael I’m sick, I’ll tell her to go fuck herself, Chris we can’t just, _please_ —”  It’s instinct, second nature to try to cross that careful distance they’ve kept for almost an hour now, to hold Chris when he looks so broken.

Darren steps forward, Chris steps back.  Instantly all the fight drains out of Darren, too, and now he understands how Chris feels.  Tired.  Empty.

“Chris—” he tries again, desperate to say something, anything so that they can  _fix this_.

Chris closes his eyes, looking away for the first time.  “Just go with her.”

Darren tries to find the will to be angry, to say something vicious that she rightly deserves, but it comes out a pained moan.

“I don’t know right now Darren, I don’t  _know_.  Just go, please.  Your career’s at a pivotal point.  You need to put forth a good public image.  You need to keep your fans.”

The hollow tone is just an echo of mocking, and Darren knows.  Chris is parroting right back every half-assed reason Darren gave him to try and smooth things over, and so everything Michael’s ever said.  There would be no quick fix this time.  The panic edges up and Darren grabs his own shirttail to stop his shaking hands.

“Chris, I—” he’s so desperate but his voice breaks, and the words stick.

“Darren.”  His eyes are back and Darren almost sobs for joy, because even empty and sad those eyes are his his  _his_.  Chris fixes him with a steady gaze, one hard enough to make the most arrogant guy in the bar back off, as he’s seen in action.  Darren doesn’t flinch.

“I love you.”

Darren locks his knees to keep himself from collapsing.  If he could only find _words_ — thank  _god_ , oh shit  _Chris_ —

“Please go.  Michael’s going to start calling.  I’ll be here when you get back.”

Darren can feel Chris’s eyes on his back all the way to the stylist’s house.  He types a dozen versions of a text message, deletes them all.  Ignores two calls from Michael and five from Mia.

Michael’s furious, but even when hard-pressed Darren can’t remember a time when he wasn’t.  She’s  _insufferable_ , fussing with her too-short skirt and picking invisible lint off his shoulders until Darren wants to scream.  He breathes,  _in-two-three-four… out-two-three-four.._. .  Michael keeps up a constant stream of reprimands in a not-so-subtle hint to Darren that Mia’s there for insurance, to make sure no one gets any crazy ideas. 

Crazy ideas that might start dancing around the truth.

He messes with his phone on the pretense of checking emails, flipping through picture after picture of Chris’s smiling face to try and stay grounded, to keep himself from the breaking point, to try and remember exactly why he puts up with this: so he and Chris can be  _safe_.

Mia’s loudest shriek yet pulls his attention, but a quick glance out the blacked-out windows confirms that they’re not at the venue yet.  Darren spares her a look, willing himself to stay civil.  “Should I even…?”

“Oooh no wonder you’re all up on Krispie Treat.  Hot  _damn._ ”

Keeping his lips clamped to stop the bile rising in his throat, Darren cuts an angry glare at her and sees—  _oh_.

He can’t stop himself from reaching for the screen, a gut reaction.  Oh god his _face_. And that gloriously uninhibited collarbone nearly stops Darren from noticing.

His eyes fill with tears without his permission at that  _stupid_ wonderful cuff, the one Darren knows has his own name scribbled on the inside in Sharpie, just something silly that has become… this.  A beacon of hope.  A sign of peace.  They’re okay.

Darren presses his palm flat against the circle of metal in his pocket, careful of Michael’s watchful eyes.  Later he’ll put it on and remember Chris’s mouth taking it off, Chris’s fingers twisting it as he whispers hot in his ear.

Darren takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, running over his song again under his breath.

They can do this, together.  They’re okay.


End file.
